


nectar of the gods

by Magali_Dragon



Series: one shots and other drabbles [15]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Attempt at Humor, Coffee, Daenerys Knows Everything, Domestic Fluff, F/M, Fluff and Humor, Jon Snow Knows Nothing, Short One Shot, Targlings (ASoIaF), season eight what season eight there was no season eight
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-06
Updated: 2020-04-06
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:27:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23513899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Magali_Dragon/pseuds/Magali_Dragon
Summary: Jon Snow samples something from Essos that makes him a bit...wired.Tumblr 100 Prompts:  #90. "I brought you food" and #68. "Were you ever going to tell me?"
Relationships: Jon Snow/Daenerys Targaryen
Series: one shots and other drabbles [15]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1567705
Comments: 41
Kudos: 336





	nectar of the gods

**Author's Note:**

> Trying to get through some writer's block-- I've been stuck doing a ton of work lately and haven't had energy to write. This was just a fun little thing. I have certainly been drinking a TON of coffee myself.

“I brought food.”

Dany looks up from the piles of parchment that block most of her view of the outside world beyond the few feet radius of her desk. She blinks, focusing on the man who has a tray balanced on one hand and his arm wrapped around a wriggling little dragon. She smiles, dropping her quill; she honestly cannot even remember what she writing—or reading—for that matter. She yawns, reaching for the dragon, who giggles at the sight of her. “Oh _issa prumia_ ,” she sighs. She nuzzles her darling little boy. “Why aren’t you sleeping, huh?”

“I feel he has developed what might be called sleeping sickness, in that he does not know how,” her husband says, tearing off a piece of bread from a loaf and placing her favored sugary fruit spread on it. He hands it to her, but she is busy with her sweet babe, so he sighs and pushes it against her lips. “Open.” To humor him, she drops her jaw, trying not to smile. He shoves the bread in. “Close,” he orders. She snaps her teeth around it. He smirks. “Chew.”

She chews, swallowing and smirking back at him again. “I do know how to eat, Jon.”

“Funny, I thought you had forgotten.” He yawns, not because he has spent days trying to pour through accounts, issues, and matters at hand as the ruler of the Seven Kingdoms, while also trying to maintain balance half a world away in Essos, and _also_ attempt to install a body of government not unlike the Small Council, except instead of people chosen by the monarch to serve directly to the monarch, this would be a much larger body that would serve the people and the people would choose them.

It is a disturbing concept for the majority of Westeros, but Dany refuses to believe it could not be done. She intends to break the wheel; this was part of it. She cannot be everywhere at once. Although having a dragon did help with that a bit.

Especially now that she has her son to think about, a son whose care she refuses to relegate to nursemaids. It is the first step in her plan to change this odd little world; the queen nursing her _own child_? _Absurd!_ Save for the fact she routinely walked into the Small Council room with her son at her breast, shocking the sensibilities of Tyrion and all her other advisers, save Missandei and Davos, who just went along with anything because he knew it was foolish to fight it.

Smart Davos.

She glances at her husband, her King, who is lying on one of the chaise lounges, one foot up and the other on the floor, his hands on his stomach. His mouth is open and she thinks he might be dead if not for the light rise and fall of his chest. She smiles, glancing at her son. Aemon sticks his fingers into his mouth, his bright gray eyes alert and darting from object to object. “Are you giving your Papa a hard time?” she murmurs, kissing his little dark brow; with the same point to his hairline as his father. If anyone had a doubt as to the father of her son, they need only glance at Jon, for it would appear that Aemon is his twin. Other than the little shock of silver that streaks across his temple. She smiles again, gently patting his back and pacing. “You know he is a very busy man.”

Jon has his own responsibilities, serving as not only King of the Seven Kingdoms in a limited ruling capacity, but also as the leader of her armies, the King in the North, and her emissary to the Free Folk. He also still maintains some role over the Night’s Watch, transitioning it from a place of derelict and punishment to an elite force to assist with the groups of Free Folk moving through the Wall. He travels often, she knows, wishing he sometimes would take Aemon with him on short journeys atop Rhaegal but he is too nervous for that yet.

He is dead on his feet, she thinks, not unlike her. Except it seems he has not been able to… _cope_ the way she has been able to all these years. She rarely sleeps well anyway, too accustomed to growing up in a world where she sometimes always had to be on the move, never resting. He does not sleep much, except when he does, it is like he is dead. Like now. “Hmm,” she wonders aloud, turning away from her sleeping King and walking into the adjacent room to her study.

Crates from Essos, already screened for dangers, destined for her chambers, filled with silks dresses, scarves, delicate leather sandals, and her favored spices, sweets, and other delicacies she cannot find or cannot bear the Westerosi alternative. She likes to think of it as expanding the Westerosi palate, while also encouraging trade. She rummages in a couple of the boxes from Moraq, when she finds it, fingers closing around one of the jars.

She tosses it in the air, catching it in her hand, smiling sideways at her son, who reaches for it. “Not for Aemon,” she coos. She smiles back over her shoulder at Jon, who is now lightly snoring, a line of drool hanging out of the corner of his mouth. She shakes her head, laughing. “Oh Aemon, what did you do to him?”

Aemon giggles.

~/~/~/~

“What is this?”

Jon sniffs the strange black concoction in the ceramic mug his wife hands him, nose wrinkling at the rather acrid smell. It is quite hot, which does not surprise him since his wife can drink boiling water and claim it too cold. He thinks his son is well on his way to that, as Aemon shoves his fingers into her tea, giggling. “Aemon,” he sighs. It was another sleepless night. “How are you still awake?”

“He’s magical,” Dany answers, and Jon only half-thinks she’s joking. She reaches for the sugar dish, sprinkling some in and then pours a bit of cream. “Here, to cut the bitterness until you get used to it. Drink it. It’s from Essos, from Great Moraq. They have these trees there with these odd seeds. They take the seeds after they get large enough and they pop out the inside. They roast them over a fire and then they crush them very fine, pour hot water and stew, and it makes a delicious beverage. Perfect for the morning.”

“I don’t like hot things in the morning.”

“You had me this morning, am I not hot?”

He turns pink, only because Missandei and Davos enter the great room where they are breaking their fast. He closes his eyes. “How much did you hear?” he asks.

Missandei giggles and Davos clears his throat. “Oh, enough Your Grace.”

“Gods, Dany.”

“So I was saying this morning.”

“Dany!” He really should not be mortified by his wife’s rather naughty sense-of-humor, but he only smiles, shaking his head. He cannot stop the warmth on his cheeks though, mostly because it has been in front of their advisers, their co-Hands, as it were. He looks in the mug again. It is not like his wife is trying to poison him; she would burn him alive if she ever wanted to kill him. No, it is that her tastes are a bit more… _varied_ than his are. The Northern cuisine did not lend itself to the spices and herbs that she was used to. Their morning drink usually consisted of hot milk or water with some mint weed, if one was ill. Although at the Wall all he drank was ale.

“Drink it Jon, it will make you feel better.”

He closes his eyes; he cannot believe he is this _tired._ Between Aemon never sleeping, the training regimens for the new army, his _own_ training with the Dothraki and Unsullied, ensuring Rhaegal got his flying time daily, and all the absolute _shite_ that he had to deal with coming from the North, he feels like he is back at the Wall again, freezing his stones off and always awake to deal with Free Folk, wights, White Walkers, or various other attempts to kill or overthrow him.

Sometimes he misses those days. It seems easier somehow.

“Pa!” Aemon screeches, hurling a hunk of porridge at him, splattering it across the new velvet doublet Dany forced him into that morning as they are entertaining the Hightowers and some Maesters from Oldtown later. He closes his eyes, some of the porridge in his hair and streaking down his cheek into his beard. Aemon giggles and reaches for more porridge. “Ooh…”

Dany scolds Aemon in Valyrian, clucking away at him and wiping his hands, but Jon knows it will do nothing to their impervious son. His skin is as hard as dragonglass and as immune to fire as his mother’s. It seems nothing can stop him when he sets his mind on something. He sighs and lifts the mug, taking a sip. His eyes widen slightly. Once the hot liquid is down his throat, he feels a nice warm pleasing sensation throughout his belly. He smacks his lips and frowns a little; it is oddly bitter, but with a nice aftertaste. He sips some more. It seems as though his eyes are opening a bit wider. Perhaps it _is_ waking him up. He frowns: _how can a drink wake you up?_

Dany glances over to him. “You like it?” she asks, clearly happy.

He is not sure _like_ is the word, but it is not horrible. Certainly better than the swill he subsisted on at the Wall for years. He shrugs, playing it off slightly. Mostly because once again she is _always_ right and he really should learn to just accept it. “It is…pleasing.”

She chuckles, lifting her tea. “Pleasing? Well alright then, I suppose that is better than disgusting or revolting or whatever other word means the same thing.” She sets her tea down, clicking her tongue and tapping Aemon’s nose, causing a bubble of giggles from their always happy child. “ _Muna_ needs to get started on her day, but I will see you soon my little dragon, yes I will!”

He smiles as she bids farewell to their son, who is more preoccupied with pulling on Missandei’s hair as the adviser takes him, while Davos stands stoically at the door, holding a leather-bound stack of parchment, no doubt all the various things he needs to discuss with her prior to starting her day. He ordinarily would take this time to go down to talk with Grey Worm, to discuss trainings and so forth, maybe even take Rhaegal up for a ride or venture into the Kingswood so Ghost could stretch his legs, but it seems he must change his clothing, thanks to his son’s adventures in porridge.

The drink Dany gave him seems to have settled well and he finds that he kind of wants more of it, even if he still isn’t sure what exactly she’s given him. He takes another long pull, swallowing and frowning a bit into the mug. He shrugs and drains it. It’s causing a nice tingling sensation throughout him; makes him feel like he can actually move his limbs despite not having a full night of sleep. Or really any sleep.

He gets up and goes over to where she had prepared the drink, shrugging at the setup and then pours some more of it from the carafe, not bothering with sugar or milk and taking it black. It tastes far more bitter this way, but he finds he actually likes it a bit more. It’s stronger and definitely forces his eyes open. He drops the mug on the dresser with all her various teas and spices and herbs she uses, but not before inspecting the grounds of the beans she claims are the source of this new beverage. He sniffs them, eyes watering a bit at the strong flavor.

Although…he sniffs again, eyebrows lifting. _That is quite nice._

“Your Grace? Would you care to take the Prince to visit with the horses? He is asking,” Missandei says, stepping into the dining chamber.

He nods, although this means that most of his day will be thrown off, not that he cares much. He turns and Aemon toddles to him, laughing again. It only serves to make him smile, the joy in his son’s eyes, and he swings him up into the air, delighting in Aemon’s squeals, his dark curls bouncing around his head in a halo. “You want to see the horses? Well, let us go see the horses. Then we can go visit Rhaegal.”

“Fly?” Aemon asks hopefully.

“No, Papa is not ready to take you aboard the dragon just yet.”

Aemon sniffs, disappointed. “Mama fly.”

“Aye, your mother took you up while she was still birthing you.” To his absolute horror, Aemon would not arrive fast enough for his impatient mother, so Daenerys, in what he could only call a _hysterical fit_ forced herself from her birthing bed, in her shift and with her legs splayed, and climbed atop Drogon straight from the balcony of their chambers, flying around Dragonstone for a bit and then landed, just in time for Aemon to drop straight into his arms, as a midwife could not get there fast enough. It is a story for the bards, a story he would think absolutely fantastical and completely nonsensical, if it did not happen to him.

Or if he did not know Daenerys Targaryen the way he knows her. He carries Aemon to his chambers, to change out of his porridge stained clothes, and foregoes any other _nice_ doublets or gambesons, preferring his worn black and brown leathers, although this time he decides to stick with Dany’s preferred Targaryen theme when they meet people and puts on a red tunic, which peeks out the collar of his black leather jerkin. He straps on Longclaw, grabs a cloak and spins it over his shoulders. Unlike the Stark furs, the thinner cloaks need only a pin and his is a specially made wolf and dragon sigil, which holds the black leather and thin fur together. He takes Aemon into his room, feeling quite awake, and does not even mind when his son kicks him straight in the chin while he wrestles him into his clothing.

In fact, he feels ready to do _anything_. Jon can see clearer, even hear things sharper than he had that morning. He goes with Aemon to the stables, visits with the horses. They go with Ghost to visit Rhaegal, riding out with a small guard to the Dragonpit, where the dragons have made their nests. Aemon grabs hold of a still smoking and charred bone of some animal, hurling it at Drogon, who makes a sound Jon can only call a _chortle_ and entertains the lad with a bit of smoking from his nostrils, while Rhaegal nuzzles the wee thing, warm breath forcing Aemon’s hair on end.

And they go back with Aemon riding atop Ghost, feeling quite pleased with himself.

Meanwhile, Jon’s mind is racing nonstop. He speaks with Grey Worm, his words fast, tumbling from his lips. He has no idea where this _energy_ came from, but he is all for it, if it means he won’t be tripping over himself like a fool boy when it comes to training. “And we need to make sure the Dothraki arakhs are well sharp, let’s get Gendry to get the new smith on it, I think he trained him, himself, he’s the best one for the job.” His mind bounces from arakhs and smiths to remembering something else. He jumps in place, ticking off his fingers. “Oh! Gendry is going to be coming from Storm’s End with a whole bunch more recruits for training from the Stormlands, says they’re good with hammers, he’s teaching them, but we need to make sure they’ve got their swords ready to go…”

 _Swords…_ His eyes widen again, and he snaps his fingers, almost smacking Grey Worm on the shoulder, which forces the Unsullied Commander to pause, giving him a steely look, his nostrils flaring slightly as the only sign of his irritation at the movement. “Oh! Also, I want Aemon to start with a bow soon, we need to make sure that he gets a good one, I think Tormund left him one from the Free Folk…”

He moves to smack his shoulder again, eager to then tell Grey Worm a funny story he remembered Tormund telling him at their last meeting up north about how some of the Free Folk were trying to fight like the Unsullied, when Grey Worm grabs his wrist, firmly, and slowly moves it back down to his side. His voice is cool and firm. “Thank you. That is quite a lot of tasks so far.”

“Oh.” His mind is still going. He eagerly rushes by Grey Worm. “Come, we have to train.”

Grey Worm narrows his eyes again. “You are…well?”

 _Well!?_ That is an understatement. For the first time in gods knows how long, Jon feels like he can fly without a dragon, run without a wolf, and he can take on anything. He no longer feels like he is a wight—and he would know as he fought them for years—stumbling haphazardly along. For the first time since Aemon was born.

“Well? _Torgo Nuhdo_ , I’m feeling fucking _amazing_!”

~/~/~/~

Dany hears from Missandei who hears from Grey Worm that Jon is not well.

She does not know what this means, because Missandei was slightly confused as she relayed what Grey Worm told her, in passing as apparently Jon has him rushing from place to place, all kinds of plans in the works. She finds this a bit odd, as Jon—while known to fly off the handle when his temper got the better of him or plunge into danger the second someone said ‘danger’—she thought he had grown lately, especially since Aemon’s birth and he was more methodical, choosing to plan a bit more before he dove headfirst into anything.

And it isn’t like there was a lot of danger surrounding their day-to-day roles these days. “What has he gotten himself into now?” she mumbles, going to check on Aemon, who was fast asleep in his little bed, hugging a knit blanket from his Aunt Sansa. She tucks it a little closer around him, scowling at the wolf design on it. It was good of Sansa to finally drop the petulant child act, once she had a nephew, but Dany still does not have a fondness for the Lady of Winterfell.

She strokes Aemon’s soft hair, cocking her head at his quiet and still form. “You just love your Papa, is that it? Is that why you never sleep when he’s around?” she chuckles, kissing his soft dark hair.

“Dany!”

The shout from Jon startles her off Aemon’s cot and she hurries from his rooms, closing the door behind her and holding her finger to her lips as she enters her and Jon’s combined study. “Shh! Aemon is sleeping!”

He blinks owlishly. “Sleeping?” he asks, drawing out the word like he has never heard it before. He blinks again; she frowns, noting that his eyes appear slightly bloodshot and at the same time also glassy. He swallows hard, turning from her and going to the table where she keeps some of her tea stash, rummaging around a bit. “Do you have any more of that stuff you gave me this morning?”

“This morning?”

“Aye, the drink, whatever it was.”

She cocks her head, watching him sniff one of the canisters that contains her mint tea. He wrinkles his nose and gags, tossing it back down and taking another. “There is more in the main dining area, but not here. I do not usually drink it.” She takes a cup now and then, but it tends to give her head pains if she drinks too much of it, so she does so in moderation. She goes over and stops him from ruining her careful setup, knocking his hands aside. To her surprise, they are actually trembling slightly.

Odd, Jon has some of the steadiest hands she knows. It is what makes him a good fighter. He swallows again and blinks some more. “I just want some more of that…whatever it was. It was really good and I’m feeling a bit…” He waves his hand about his face, blinking again. “Slow.”

As he cannot seem to stand still—a gain, something very un-Jon-like—he leaves their study and wanders through the maze of rooms to their dining area, where he pounces upon the ground beans, eagerly pouring some into the carafe she used this morning. He grabs it and shouts for someone to bring him hot water. There are no shortage of serving girls and boys in the castle, to Dany’s displeasure—she still has trust issues with many of her non-advisers—so one appears almost instantly with hot water.

Jon pours the hot water over the ground beans, staring at it as they go through the thin cloth lining she used. He waits, barely a moment, before the brown liquid filters into the bottom of the carafe and takes it, drinking straight. He waves at her again. “Alright, I’m set now, I’ll be back, I have to go take Rhaegal over to Storm’s End.”

“Today?” she exclaims.

“Hmm, I have so many things to discuss with Gendry!” He finishes off the drink, grinning. “I will be back by the evening!”

Dany glances at the container of the ground beans, her eyes widening further. “Jon!”

“Hmm?” He is trying to fasten his cloak, but his fingers are shaking. She cannot be bothered to go help him, too busy staring at the container that _used_ to house the beans. “Yes love?’

She shakes the empty can at him. “How many cups of this have you had today?”

“Uh…I don’t know. Maybe like eight?”

 _Eight cups of…_ She closes her eyes. “Oh gods.”

He makes a sound like a giggle, unable to stop moving, and smacks a kiss on her lips. She shudders, as he tastes like he just started chewing the beans straight. “See you in a bit love!”

“Hmm.” She waits for him to leave and chuckles. She sighs, going to find Davos who sticks his head out from behind a door, glancing around shiftily. “Do not fear Ser Davos, he’s gone. Although I feel for poor Lord Baratheon.”

“I believe Lady Stark is in residence at Storm’s End, perhaps she will be able to tamper down the King’s current ah…” Davos searches for the word, while Dany waits, amused. He cannot seem to find it and shrugs, giving up. “Behavior?”

“You can say it Davos. He is a madman.”

“Whatever is it you gave him this morning, Your Grace?”

She laughs. “Well, as many only take one or two cups, maybe a few more, before they get used to it, I have a feeling our King is in for a pretty nasty evening when he returns.”

Davos frowns, his mustache twitching with the movement of his lips. “Oh?”

“Hmm.” It is probably wrong of her, but she actually quite delights in what she believes her husband is in for that evening. In the meantime, she will have to hide the rest of the beans from Essos, else he might grow completely addicted. Dany feels if that is the case, no doubt Grey Worm would shove his spear through the King’s gut or Davos would finally throw him overboard.

Not that Jon might not deserve it, she thinks later, as she gapes in horror at the reorganizing that he has done to all the Unsullied and Dothraki weapons, the master-at-arms—one of her trusted Dothraki commanders—staring at her, waiting for her response. She really does not have one, shaking her head at the absolute mess of things her husband hath wrought on the weapons vaults. “I’ll talk to him,” she mumbles.

Grey Worm can only just mutter: “I hope he listens.”

Me too, she silently adds, going to see what other hells Jon hath wrought upon their castle.

~/~/~/~

“Uhhh….”

His head is _killing_ him. He feels as though there are weights tied to his hands and feet, dragging him down. He cannot open his eyes, his throat hurts, and someone is crushing his head with an anvil. There are so many sounds, too many sounds…sounds of screaming and hissing and crashing.

Then he realizes those are the waves hitting the walls beneath the windows. Except more like the waves pounding him straight into the obsidian rock. He can barely move, just enough to turn slightly on the bed, only to see he has not even changed from his traveling clothes, although someone took off his sword and boots, as they are propped against his wardrobe. “Dany?” he croaks, his own voice hurting his head, another crack of pain across his skull.

Fog wraps him in the pain. Even with his heavy limbs, they seem to move in a manner that leaves streaks behind, like he can see every element of the motion. He leans back slightly against the pillows stacked around him. He stares at the door opening, his wife walking in holding another mug. He points to it, about to warn her that she needs to stop giving him strange drinks, when she smirks. “Relax, it is mint, it will help your headache. Dare I also say that your stomach is likely in pain too.”

 _Gods, now that she mentions it…_ His stomach feels like it is filled with rocks, with hot fire tracking up his throat. Explains the throat pain. “Hmm,” he mumbles, sniffing the drink just to make sure. He swallows, wincing. “What did you do to me? I’d think poison, but I don’t know. You would burn me alive if you wanted me gone.”

“I would, yes,” she answers, a bit too fast for his liking. He scowls, but she laughs, dropping a sweet kiss to his forehead. “Oh, _issa zokla_ , you are entertaining.” She strokes his hair, the movement encouraging his heavy head to drop a bit on his shoulders, right into her soft hands. It is soothing, her nails scraping lightly on his scalp as she massages the tight muscles. He groans, pressing towards her shoulder. Her hands smooth over his back, rubbing lightly. “I believe you are having withdrawal.”

“Withdrawal? From what?”

“The _kavka_ of course.”

 _Kavka?_ He does not know this word, whether it be Dothraki or Valyrian. Not that that is saying much, as he still struggles with both languages, although he is far better in Dothraki than Valyrian. “What is that?” he mumbles into her shoulder, finding that the silk of her dress and her flowery smelling hair and the absolute pillowy softness of her bare skin is really helping with his headache. He nuzzles in a little closer. “ _Kavka_?”

“Well, in Volantis they call it the _Bāne kraj mōzugon_ , but I always heard it called _kavka_. It is the drink, made from the seeds of the trees I told you about. I think the seeds they call them, ah… _cacao_?” She kisses his temple, still soothing him. Jon thinks he feels quite nice now, all the nasty side effects of this horrible drink fading with her presence. “It translates to ‘hot powerful drink.’”

“Hmm. Powerful?”

“Well you did accomplish so much today, on so little sleep, did you not?”

Aye, he supposes so. He smiles a little. “I did get a lot done.”

“You also terrorized the Dothraki and Unsullied, Grey Worm forbids you to ever try training them again and Maqho says if you even think of going near his weapons vaults again, he will cut off your head, he cares not that you are a king.”

“Oh.”

She continues, laughing. “And Gendry sent a raven saying that while he appreciates all your suggestions, he knows the smiths a bit better than you and as ah… _admirable_ as you seem to think his skills are, he cannot possibly make 10,000 swords in a month.”

“10,000 swords…” Gods, he did say that, didn’t he? He frowns. “What else did I say?”

“Well Aemon is beside himself that he gets to learn to shoot, but I think we should refrain from teaching the _two-year old_ how to kill us, just yet.” She is still smiling, even though he knows that soon Aemon will need to learn—Dothraki children could ride and shoot before they could walk, after all. She laughs. “And Rhaegal will not come down from the sky, so whatever did you do to him? Ghost also gave me a look I can only describe as ‘help’.”

Hmm, he does not know what either beast has issue with, but who knows anymore. Things are coming back to him, bits and pieces, but he stills feels awful. He wraps her in his arms, sighing, his breath tickling her hair back from her neck. “Dany.”

“Yes?”

“Were you ever going to tell me?”

She laughs. “Tell you what?”

“About the drink!”

She laughs, kissing his cheek and then dropping one to his lips. “I thought you liked it?”

“I did.”

“Moderation, dear Jon, is something I believe you struggle with; we will see how you feel tomorrow. For now, let’s get you a bath.” She drags him to his feet, shuffling backwards with him towards their bathing chamber, where a tub is already filled with steaming water. Just looking at it has sweat beading along his brow.

He winces as she removes her dress in one pull over her head and almost dives into the massive tub, her pale skin pinking instantly. “Just looking at that makes me burn.”

“As in temperature or…” She licks her lower lip, rather invitingly, silver eyebrows waggling. “Other ways?”

Although his head is killing him, his heart feels ready to explode from his chest, and he still is sluggish, Jon thinks that it might be in other ways how he’s burning. He cannot possibly deny his queen, after all, as he jumps in after her.

~/~/~/~

“Aemon for the love of gods.”

It is well beyond five in the morning, neither of them got sleep, for after frolicking about in the tub until the water was tepid and then a bit more in their giant bed, they got about two hours of solid sleep before Aemon wandered in—little scamp always managing to sneak from his rooms—demanding stories and playtime and even as he drifted off, despite the size of the bed and the size of Aemon, somehow he managed to punch and kick them both so much they gave up on sleep altogether.

She yawns, pouring herself a cup of the _kavka_. She sprinkles some sugar and pours in milk, before topping it with a bit of cinnamon. “Jon, we have to do something about him. Perhaps a trip to Winterfell. He’ll have to sleep in the cold because he’ll freeze to sleep.”

“Winter!” Aemon shouts, excited by this prospect.

“No, remember last time?”

Oh yes, she remembers now. If Aemon is encouraged by the waves of Dragonstone and the warm, clean air from the sea, he is downright shocked by the cold air, which seemed to give him even more energy. He is a winter child after all, she thinks, sighing. Born in a snowstorm, his second name being Snow as well. “I forgot,” she mumbles, sipping her drink.

“I cannot believe you are drinking that!”

She glances at it and shrugs. “It is alright in moderation. You practically overdosed.”

He scowls. “Well how was I supposed to know?”

“Trial and error?” she suggests.

The doors open, Davos entering. “Your Grace, I have some bad news,” he starts immediately.

“That means there’s worse news,” Jon translates, as she groans into her cup. He nods. “Have a seat Davos, start with the bad, get to the worse.”

Davos sits at the table, politely accepting the half-eaten biscuit that Aemon hands him. “Well I am afraid that we have received a raven from Casterly Rock, that’s the bad news.”

“And what is the worse news then?” she asks.

“It says Lord Tyrion will be here later today.”

They both curse; hers in Valyrian and Jon’s an outright “Fuck.”

Aemon throws his hands in the air, one of his spoons chucking porridge at Dany while his bowl topples over, dumping straight on Jon. He giggles, before climbing into his stunned father’s lap and begins to use the porridge as paint, dabbing it on Jon’s beard and nose. “Purty Papa,” he says.

“Here that Jon?” Dany says. She laughs. “You’re _purty_!”

He glares at her; even Davos is smiling, trying not to laugh, although failing. He sighs. He will certainly need _something_ to get him to survive this day. He grabs Aemon under his arm, hauling him up like a sack of potatoes, which only has the boy squealing in happiness, blowing out his lips and tongue, sputtering. Using one arm, he reaches for the carafe of the _kavka_ and pours himself a rather large mug, downing a healthy bit of it on the walk back to the table.

It will be worth the pain later, he tells himself, as Davos begins to discuss Tyrion’s visit while Aemon decides to use a tomato to add some red to the porridge palette on Jon’s face.

**fin.**

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading :)


End file.
